


Delta of Venus

by honey_wheeler



Series: City of Illusions [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gladiator AU, Jealousy, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sansa,” he breathes, fervently this time, all trace of pique gone from his voice. Still she keeps her chin down, her eyes artfully lowered, but slowly parts her thighs, letting him see more and more of her as her hand continues to move. She half expects him to bolt across the room to her, his mouth and hands stopping her self-induced pleasure, but he makes no move. Knowing that he wants to watch her is violently exciting in a way she hadn’t expected. Other men’s eyes on her make her feel ill, even when she’s fully clothed. Jon’s eyes on her make her feel like her entire body is aflame, her blood like molten lava flowing through her veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delta of Venus

He’s in a mood. He has been since the moment she walked in. Most days, he stands respectfully for her when she enters, watching her with an interest that falls just short of lust but far beyond mere duty. It never fails to fire her blood, the way he watches her and waits, hands folded neatly behind him, feet wide in a stance that seems intoxicatingly masculine and powerful. He waits, but only so long, usually crossing the room to press his lips against her nape as she turns to close the door, or slide a hand over her hip, his weapon-roughened hands snagging the delicate fabric as he sinks his fingers into the yield of her flesh.

But today he’d only glanced over at her from his position on his cot, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his attention immediately returning to the length of wood he was whittling to a rough point with his knife.

For a moment she’d been surprised and hurt. Memories of the first time she visited him had swum through her head, reminding her of his angry insults and his scorn. Perhaps his desire for her had cooled. Perhaps she’d been only an itch to scratch, despite his talk of love, despite the ardency of his touch and the pain on his face that he couldn’t seem to mask whenever she left him.

But then she remembered the display she’d been forced to make that afternoon at the arena under the watchful eye of Joffrey's ever-suspicious mother. Sansa had played the part of dutiful betrothed, clinging sweetly to his arm and submitting with joyful innocence to his kiss, a kiss that was no less foul for knowing that he did it only for his mother’s benefit as well, having no real desire of affection for Sansa herself. Sansa has never liked Joffrey’s possessiveness or jealousy; it's the possessiveness a man feels for cattle or goods, impersonal and insulting, ascribing her no more sentience or free will than a bolt of cloth.

Jon’s jealousy, however, is something altogether different. A delicious thrill runs beneath her skin. Perhaps his mood is within her power to improve.

“Are funds so dire that you’re forced to manufacture your own weapons now?” she asks lightly as she moves across the room, removing her palla and folding it neatly to place on the lone wooden chair allotted to Jon as part of his furnishings. Then, reconsidering, she moves her palla to the small table beside it. She has other plans for the chair.

Jon only grunts in answer. His knife wicks along the wood he holds, the sound of it sharp and grating to Sansa’s ears. So focused is he on his whittling, that he doesn’t seem to notice as Sansa removes her bracelets one by one, and then her earrings, placing each piece of jewelry atop the folded fabric. Even when she draws her stola over her head and stands before him entirely bare but for the combs in her hair, he studiously ignores her, though she sees the way his cheeks go red and his head ducks, as if to keep him from looking at her.

It’s the scrape of the chair across the swept stone floor that has his head jerking up, the mutinous set of his lips a sharp contrast to the hot desire in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice already rough and deep. She ignores him as thoroughly as he had her, pulling the chair to the center of the room and setting it directly before him, just out of his arm’s reach if he leaned forward. Eyelids low, gaze cast towards the floor with her cheek pressed demurely to her bare shoulder, she sits, her knees pressed together and her feet pressed up onto her toes. For a long moment, she keeps her hands placed on her knees, looking every bit like a regal queen but for the nudity of her body. Silence stretches out between them, so thick with tension she thinks he could whittle it like that wood that’s still in his hand, forgotten now in his focus on her. She permits herself a small smile.

“San-” he starts, and cuts himself when her hands begin to move, dragging slowly up her thighs and then between, the backs of her hands pressed together as she moves towards her body. The second half of her name sounds like nothing more than a wordless exclamation when her hands reach the apex of her thighs. It’s followed by another sound just like it when she moves her hand, stimulating herself in a way so brazen and scandalous that she can scarcely believe herself.

“Sansa,” he breathes, fervently this time, all trace of pique gone from his voice. Still she keeps her chin down, her eyes artfully lowered, but slowly parts her thighs, letting him see more and more of her as her hand continues to move. She half expects him to bolt across the room to her, his mouth and hands stopping her self-induced pleasure, but he makes no move. Knowing that he wants to watch her is violently exciting in a way she hadn’t expected. Other men’s eyes on her make her feel ill, even when she’s fully clothed. Jon’s eyes on her make her feel like her entire body is aflame, her blood like molten lava flowing through her veins.

Her knees are spread just past the width of her shoulders now. Finally she looks up at him, expecting to see his eyes fixed on the movement of her hand. Instead he looks at her face, an expression of impossible longing on his own, and she knows then that whatever words he’d spoken before of love and need were only pale echoes of all that he feels.

Giving in, she spreads her knees wide, speeding the movement of her hand while she grips the bottom of the seat with the other. He wants her desperately – she can see the physical evidence of it even from here, with him still fully clothed – but he grips the edge of his cot and watches her still, his mouth open the barest bit, as if he can’t catch his breath. Heat throbs at her fingertips and in her belly and spreads, until her whole body feels like an enormous, pulsing heartbeat.

“When I come,” she gasps out. “When I come, then you may touch me. Then I _want_ you to touch me. Will you, Jon?” Her hand is so slick with her desire she can hardly bear it, her hand circles and presses and rubs with obscenely wet sounds that would embarrass her if they didn’t only make her wetter.

“As you wish, Domina.” It’s the title that does it. Why that should be, Sansa doesn’t entirely understand. Perhaps it’s how the word has come to symbolize how completely he’s given himself to her. It matters little when her body is collapsing into itself with raw, debilitating pleasure, a pleasure far more powerful than any she’s ever felt at her own hand before. The magic is in his watchful gaze, in the way he spurs her on and challenges her and worships her. She tips her head back and closes her eyes, feeling the ends of her hair brush over and stick against the sweat-damp skin between her shoulder blades.

Her knees are wobbly when she stands, and she falls more than sits upon his lap, barely managing to get her legs astride him even with the help of his able hands. In the blink of an eye, he is ready for her, and the feel of him easing slowly inside her – slowly, even as she’d spent the last half hour teasing and tempting him – leaves her whole body feeling full and achy and perfect. They don’t speak as he moves within her. The only sounds are the ragged gulps of their mingled breathing, her small cries and whimpers, the damp collision of his flesh with hers.

“Touch yourself again,” he rasps, the tendons of his neck standing out as he seems to fight against something. “I want you to look in my eyes when you come this time.” She does as she’s bid, though she scarcely needs to with his words acting on her like a torch to tinder. The barest touch of her fingers has her collapsing again, this time holding on to his shoulders like they’re her anchor in a storm-driven sea. He holds her eyes through every throb and shiver, until the pulses of her body around him grow sporadic, and then he wraps an arm around her hips and thrusts into her hard and deep, until he too peaks as he clutches at her as if she’s his own anchor, even as he’s hers.

He rests his head against her breasts as they pant and quiver, the air cooling the sweat on their skin as they recover. Sansa searches for her footing again, struggling against the softest part of her heart that wants only to hold his face to her breast and coo meaningless sweetness in his ears, foolhardy words of love and longing, rash desires to run away and keep only to each other for the rest of their lives. Tamping everything down deep, she runs a fingertip behind his ear, where she knows he’s sensitive. Sure enough, he stirs at the touch, his mouth opening over the side of her breast and sucking a blossom there.

“So have I cheered you out of your dudgeon?” she asks, rubbing his earlobe between her thumb and forefinger before tugging at it, gently but firmly.

“My dudgeon?” Jon asks, his lips moving against her breast.

“Your fit of jealousy. Over Joffrey and how I kissed him today.” Jon’s body stiffens against her, but his mouth stays soft on her skin.

“Wasn’t jealous,” he mumbles, a distinctly childish tone lacing the words, even muffled as they are against her breast.

“Were so,” she corrects, a smile plucking at her lips. “And are you still? Or shall I have to try to cheer you out of it again?”

He remains silent, and for a moment she fears she may have pushed him too far. But then he looks up at her, his hair mussed boyishly and falling in his face. “I think the gods will forgive me for lying just this once,” he says, a sly smile curving his mouth. “No, I’m quite put out still. You’ll have to cheer me again, possibly more than once.”

Sansa returns his smile. “I shall do my level best,” she vows, and drops her head to his to start the attempt with a kiss.


End file.
